


Stylized

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Hair Brushing, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-08 11:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14103912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Hisoka reaches out with one hand to slide his fingers into the long weight of Illumi's hair, lifting one of the locks from where it’s falling loose alongside the other’s hip." Hisoka makes an offer Illumi doesn't refuse.





	Stylized

**Author's Note:**

  * For [setosdarkness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/setosdarkness/gifts).



Illumi likes the quiet of the early morning. There’s a peace to the deepest parts of the night, those shadowed times when predators prowl and death comes wrapped in silence; it’s certainly a time that Illumi himself has no fear of, and objectively the darkness is well-suited for the kind of work he does best. But there’s a clarity in the mornings, when the sun is threatening the horizon but hasn’t yet offered up the blinding blaze of true sunrise, when the pale blue light of dawn is casting everything into cool greys and soft illumination that Illumi doesn’t have to strain his eyes to see. It’s a breath of calm, of true peace instead of the illusion of it the night offers, and Illumi likes to linger in the uncommon clarity of it whenever he has the chance.

He wakes in the dark, today. That’s normal: he’s learned how to make do with a few hours of sleep where he can steal them, and his instincts are such that he regularly jolts to full attention in the middle of the night in answer to some shift of a breath or the weight of a far-off footstep. He only sleeps soundly in absolute silence, and when he manages that it leaves him feeling groggy and clumsy, as if he’s lost his connection to reality and has to struggle to lay hand to it again. With Hisoka’s weight sprawling across the bed next to him he stirs nearly every hour, every time the other man turns over or hums some sound in his sleep, but tonight was a calm one, without the addition of a blade or a kiss to the darkness that filled their hotel room. Hisoka must be more tired than usual, or at least have some reason to let Illumi think that, and Illumi has none to disrupt the other’s lie of exhaustion. He slides sideways out of bed, shifting carefully across the sheets rather than sitting up and pulling them away from where they’re draped around Hisoka’s sleeping form, and when his feet touch the floor it’s with no sound at all to give him away as he pads across the room to the blackout curtains pulled close over the illumination of the window.

It’s still dim outside when Illumi slips between the weight of the curtains to look out the clear glass of the window before him. The night is like a blanket over the city below, with only the illumination of neon lights to flicker against the dark; there’s no visible movement on the streets, even when Illumi stares long enough for his eyes to adjust to the shadows. Everyone is asleep, or only just stirring; nocturnal creatures are on their way to bed, while those that traverse the day haven’t yet roused themselves. Illumi braces a hand against the window seat, steadying his weight as he kneels on the cushion and draws himself into a compact curl against one side of the window, and he settles himself to stare unblinking out at the cityscape and wait for the dawn.

It comes slowly, the way it always does. The night is at its darkest in the minutes before the sky begins to lighten, but the change is slow and so smooth that it’s all but imperceptible even to Illumi’s wide eyes. Black eases to shadows, shadows give way to grey, and by the time Illumi has counted a quarter hour the world outside has clarity to its lines and light suffusing every corner. It’s soft against his face, too, cutting through the transparent glass before him to show up the dark of his hair as something more than an extension of a shadow, throwing the lines of his face and the curl of his arms into sharp relief; if anyone were to look up, Illumi thinks they would be able to see him framed on the far side of the window, still as a statue where he’s curling his shoulders in around the last dark of night captured close against his body. Illumi fixes his gaze on the rooftops spreading out around him, on the skeleton of the city still waiting the lifeblood of its people to stir it to waking, and he breathes slow and quiet to ease himself almost out of existence itself.

The curtain draws back with a rattle of metal as the attachment rings clatter against the support rod. “I knew you’d be here,” Hisoka says, sounding as self-satisfied as if there was really any mystery to Illumi’s whereabouts. It’s his default tone for any declaration; Illumi doesn’t comment. “How long are you planning to sit there?”

“I’m watching the sun rise,” Illumi says, reciting the words back as if they’re someone else’s placed to take root and sprout on his tongue. He blinks deliberately, feeling the drag of his eyelashes catching on each other and staring into the endless dark on the far side of his eyelids; and then he opens them again, and turns his head as consciously to look back at his audience. Hisoka is standing at the edge of the window seat, one arm up where he pushed back the curtain so he can lounge against the wall; his face looks sharper absent his usual makeup, his eyes darker and his mouth harder. Illumi looks at Hisoka’s face for a moment, considering the details of his familiar features and wondering who else has ever had occasion to see them; and then he takes a breath and speaks without looking away from the other’s profile. “Are you going to put on pants?”

Hisoka’s lips curl up onto a smirk; his gaze slides sideways from the window to meet Illumi’s flat stare. “Why?” he asks, and shifts his weight in a way that all but begs Illumi’s attention to slide down from broad shoulders to sharply defined waist, to trail the path of muscle and white-faded scars to the stiff length of the other’s arousal jutting out from his hips. “Am I a distraction to you?”

Illumi lifts a shoulder in a shrug and turns his head to look back out the window. “Not particularly.”

Hisoka’s sigh is gusty. “You’re no fun,” he says. Illumi can see movement in his periphery, but it’s fluid, without the sharp speed that would indicate an actual attack, so he doesn’t turn his head to track Hisoka’s motion as the other moves back and away from the window. He keeps watching the city instead, letting his attention slide out over the rooftops of the buildings spread out before him while from behind him there’s the rustle of fabric and the soft scuff of footsteps. Hisoka can move with perfect silence if he wants, as Illumi well knows, but he rarely makes use of that skill. He claims it serves him better to startle people who are used to hearing him coming; Illumi finds it easier to stay in practice if he makes a habit of it. In either case, it doesn’t make a difference when there’s no one in the room but the two of them; they can both keep track of each other with more than simple sound, after all. As it is Illumi can parse the details of Hisoka’s movement from the shift of fabric sliding over itself and the huff of the other’s breathing; he’s putting on pants as Illumi suggested, but dispensing with a shirt for the time being. There’s the sound of a makeup bag crinkling as the vinyl shifts with Hisoka’s touch, but none of the rustle of a brush or the click of a lid coming open. It’s still dark in the room, even with the curtains drawn back halfway to let in the glow of approaching daybreak, but Hisoka can put on his makeup in complete darkness if he needs to; in this case the lack of evidence of such indicates a different priority. The change in routine is enough to bring the start of tension into Illumi’s shoulders, to run the familiar heat of adrenaline through his veins, but he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t so much as blink away from his gaze out over the city. There’s the sound of the bag dropping to the counter, a breath of absolute silence; and Illumi pivots at once, twisting away from his consideration of the glass before him to reach up and grab Hisoka’s wrist as the other lifts his hand over Illumi’s head. Illumi’s fingers tighten, his grip forces back against the natural angle of Hisoka’s arm, and Hisoka hisses a show pain, grimacing as he tips sideways to capitulate to the force.

“ _Ow_ ,” he whines. “Did you forget who I was so soon?”

“No,” Illumi says without looking away from Hisoka’s face. “That’s why I knew you were sneaking up on me.”

Hisoka’s put-upon frown flashes to a grin for a brief, startling moment. “You never trust me with anything,” he says, purring over the words like they’re a compliment. “I’ve always loved that about you.”

“You’d kill me if I did,” Illumi says; and then, after a beat: “And I would deserve it.”

Hisoka’s smile drags wider across his face. It looks sharper without his usual lipstick, like the slash of a knife has cut across his features. Illumi doesn’t know if it’s Illumi’s paranoia or the thought of killing him that has Hisoka so amused, and he doesn’t ask and he doesn’t care.

“You got me this time,” Hisoka says, and twists his wrist against Illumi’s hold with a fluidity as if his body really is made of the rubber that he wields so easily. “I had every intention of taking advantage of you.” His fingers shift, the motion as elegant as a magician drawing a card from his sleeve, and a comb appears in his fingers, the wide one Illumi uses instead of the array of styling tools Hisoka makes use of when putting up his own hair. “I nearly had you at my mercy with this.”

Illumi considers the comb. “What were you going to do with that?”

“Eviscerate you, obviously,” Hisoka says, with such ease on the words that he sounds sincere. “What else would I do with a comb?”

Illumi lets his hold on Hisoka’s wrist ease; the other pulls sideways to free himself, rotating his wrist like he’s shaking off the bone-deep bruise Illumi’s hold should have left. “I’m not letting you style my hair.”

“No styling,” Hisoka says, holding both hands palm-up as if that would actually serve as proof of his innocence. “I just thought I’d brush it out for you.” He reaches out with one hand to slide his fingers into the long weight of the other’s hair, lifting one of the locks from where it’s falling loose alongside Illumi’s hip. “I’m not in the habit of envy but I would _kill_ for your hair.”

“That’s not saying much,” Illumi says. Hisoka laughs as if he’s joking.

“Just turn towards the window,” he says. His fingers catch under Illumi’s hair, skimming close enough to the other’s neck that Illumi can feel the delicate hairs just along the neckline of his shirt rise as if with answering electricity; when he lifts Illumi can feel the sensation all across his scalp, as Hisoka’s fingers take some measure of the usual burden of the sheet of darkness falling around his hips. “You don’t even have to do anything. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“You are not funny,” Illumi observes, just in case Hisoka thinks he is; but he’s not wrong either, and he doesn’t bother with refusing the offer. Illumi shifts against the window seat, turning without unfolding his legs so he ends perched at the edge with both knees drawn up against his chest and his hair falling past his hips to hang loose over the edge of the seat behind him. Hisoka hums in the back of his throat, something musical and satisfied, and reaches out to catch his fingers into Illumi’s hair and stroke down through the weight of it. Illumi feels the strands part to the contact, feels the few tangles of his near-motionless sleep falling free to Hisoka’s touch; it’s as the other starts to collect Illumi’s hair together in one hand so he can apply the comb to the end that a thought occurs to Illumi and urges him to speak. “If you put gum in my hair I will murder you where you sit.”

“I would never,” Hisoka says, without even a flicker of his usual amused laughter on his tone. “I’m not _that_ destructive.” He is, and Illumi knows it; but he does sound sincere, and Illumi’s known Hisoka long enough to pick apart even a flicker of mockery from his tone. Honesty like this is as rare as tenderness, and Illumi grants them the same bemused indulgence. He fixes his gaze on the cityscape below, and blinks with careful intent, and goes silent as Hisoka starts to brush his hair.

It’s more soothing than Illumi expected. This is a chore he’s used to, of course: he’s had to work through the tangles in his hair on a regular basis ever since it grew below his shoulders, sometimes multiple times a day if he’s doing something particularly strenuous. It’s become routine, a burden lightened by simple repetition, but it’s no more pleasant than washing his face or eating the meals he needs to sustain himself. He doesn’t think of it, doesn’t focus on what he’s doing; even the occasional twinges of hurt from a too-rough stroke are distant, easily swept aside and forgotten in comparison to the far greater store of pain in his memories. But it’s different when his hands are idle, when it’s someone else guiding the teeth of the comb stroking through his hair; it feels more immersive, as if his whole scalp is prickling with the electricity of someone else’s motion more than his own. Hisoka is surprisingly careful, his touch gentle as Illumi would never have expected from a man who does what he’s seen Hisoka do to his own hair; the knots seem to melt before the drag of the comb in his fingers, untangling as if by true magic to the work of Hisoka’s motion.

The room fills up with quiet. Illumi can hear the sound of Hisoka’s breathing if he listens for it, can pick out the slight catch that always comes with the other’s inhales, like an unvoiced hiccup or a skip in his throat, but more clearly he can hear the drag of the comb parting the fall of his hair and smoothing it to evenness. The tangles are long gone, the few knots worked free on the first pass of Hisoka’s motion, but Hisoka keeps moving, brushing Illumi’s hair back and down the whole length of the other’s back with careful intent. Illumi doesn’t speak, doesn’t lift his head or turn to shake Hisoka off, and when the other’s fingers draw in to slide over his forehead and pull the comb in their wake he can feel the contact like electricity painless and prickling against his spine to radiate warmth out into the very tips of his fingers and against the thud of his heart in his chest.

It’s a long time before Hisoka finally draws the comb free of Illumi’s hair and reaches to set it against the edge of the window seat. Illumi sees the motion in his periphery but he doesn’t move to react; when Hisoka lifts his hands again it’s to curl his touch over Illumi’s ears and dig his fingers in close against the other’s scalp before he pushes up to drag the weight of dark hair up and back. Illumi holds his head still, resisting the urge of Hisoka’s hands instead of tilting into it, but his lashes dip, his vision giving way for a moment as the whole of his scalp radiates sensation enough to shudder goosebumps across every inch of his skin.

“There,” Hisoka says. “Pretty as a picture.” His hands draw back, lifting the whole of Illumi’s hair off his neck and shoulders for a moment before letting the strands fall through his fingers and tumble back into place against the other’s neck. “I’m going to take a shower. Want to come with?”

Illumi doesn’t have to turn his head to hear the smirk that goes along with the invitation. “No,” he says, and opens his eyes to gaze out into the brilliance of the rising sun. “I’ll be here when you’re finished, though.”

“Alright.” There’s a touch against Illumi’s hair once more, the weight of fingers sliding down and over the strands like a caress before Hisoka steps away to move across the room towards the bathroom. “Back in a bit.”

Illumi doesn’t turn around from the window. Behind him he can hear the sound of Hisoka’s footsteps and the click of the bathroom fan coming on; after another moment the shower starts up, splashing droplets against the glass door with a sound like rain. Illumi stays where he is, gazing out over the sundrenched city below, and he lets the calm of the moment sink into him alongside the hum of Hisoka’s touch echoing through his body.

It’s nice to let himself be manipulated, sometimes.


End file.
